


We Don't Deserve to Win It

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [32]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, PTSD, emotional angst, it's time to be worried about dad, listen i am very mean to alfred and actually i do apologize, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Alfred is sick and that's enough to scare anyone.





	We Don't Deserve to Win It

**Author's Note:**

> title from The Arcadian Wild's "Liar"  
> set sometime after DM.

The house was quiet when Kiran Devabhaktuni left the den where Timothy Wayne had fallen asleep on a couch, controller in hand, after a rough day— he’d stayed later than he’d been planning on, to keep him company and make sure Timothy fell asleep instead of heading for an energy drink. Halfway to the side door, where his shoes were shoved under a bench and his jacket was on a hook, he stopped and swore under his breath.

Alfred had bought Kashmiri biscuits from an Indian shop in Gotham for him and he’d left them on a counter in the cave. If he didn’t go back down for them, they’d be gone by the time he returned— abandoned biscuits didn’t last long in the Wayne house, not even with a name on the box.

There was a way through the main corridors that took him to the parlor, and then there was a shortcut through the servant’s passages behind the kitchen and pantry that got him there faster. He went that way, trusting that even if he couldn’t be a silent as a bat he’d be quiet _enough_. Alfred was the only one who slept down here, and he had a preternatural ability to distinguish danger from non-threats, it seemed.

Dev was just around the corner when he heard a strange, ragged noise. It sounded like coughing, or laughter, from a distance. He took a step closer and it sounded more frantic.

Another and it was clear: the sound was crying, and someone crying hard. It was a desperate, broken sound— not the sound of someone in physical pain, but the broken-hearted weeping he’d heard too many times in consult rooms, or in private waiting rooms where he’d delivered bad news. He’d stood outside too many, listening to someone’s life fall apart on the other side of the oak and drywall.

Within a second, he was knocking.

“Alfie? Alfie, are you quite alright? I’m coming in, then.”

There was no answer so he turned the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open gently, and peered inside. The lights were on, so he pushed it open just a bit more.

Alfred hadn’t even noticed.

He was sitting on the floor beside the bed, sobbing into his hands, and Dev didn’t wait for an invitation further into the room. He was in front of him in a few quick strides, crouching.

“Alfie. What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” Dev scanned rapidly, looking for blood or any signs of injury.

“He’s dead,” Alfred gasped, into his palms. He groaned. “He’s dead, my boy is…he’s gone, after everything he’s gone and they won’t…they won’t let me see him.”

A heaving sob shook his shoulders.

Dev frowned and put his wrist to Alfred’s forehead, above the tips of the pressed fingers, and swore at the heat there.

“Alfie. Wayne is fine. We’ve got to get this fever down. Can you stand?”

The answer was a keening wail. Dev put a hand on his shoulder to try to get him to respond, to look up, and Alfred sagged forward against him. Dev, slightly startled, wrapped his arms around him automatically and held him there.

“What was that noise? I was grabbing a snack and—” Tim asked, skidding into the door frame, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Holy shit. Dev, what’s—”

“Go get your da,” Dev interrupted. “Shh, Alfie. I swear he’s alright.”

“Is he…”

“ _Now_.”

Tim took off and Dev let Alfred press his face into his chest and weep, while he rubbed his back, and tried to remember if Alfred had seemed ill when he saw him earlier in the day.

“He died without me,” Alfred choked out. He was shaking. “He died alone. Nobody was…nobody was with him.”

“It’s alright,” Dev murmured, swallowing hard. He debated gripping Alfred by the elbows and maneuvering him up to the bed, but decided against it when Alfred’s hands curled into fists in Dev’s shirt.

It felt like hours but it couldn’t have been that long, that he was holding him and murmuring things while Alfred cried bitterly.

Bruce was a quiet man when he wanted to be, which was nearly all the time, but Dev heard the pounding of sprinting feet two halls away before Bruce burst into the room. He didn’t slow until he was on his knees beside Dev.

“Alfred. Alfred.” Bruce didn’t bother asking what was wrong, but Dev couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard him so audibly, obviously upset. “Al, look at me.”

The crying cut off abruptly, with only a ragged inhale and exhale left behind.

“Bruce?” Alfred looked up, and over. Dev let him go.

Bruce’s gentle half-smile was relieved. “In the flesh.”

The overjoyed cry that tore out of Alfred’s throat was muffled by the hand he clapped over his mouth and then he was throwing his arms around Bruce to hug him tightly. He was still trembling, all over, and the second Bruce cupped the back of Alfred’s head in his hand to cradle him against his shoulder, Bruce’s attention snapped over to Dev.

“He’s burning up.”

Dev was already climbing to his feet. “We need to get the fever down, if he’s already delirious. Try to keep him calm.”

“Shh, Al, it’s me,” Bruce was saying softly, when Dev went from the room into the private bathroom. He turned on the lights and then started up the shower.

“Is he okay?” Tim asked from the edge of the room, when Dev stepped back out. His gaze flicked from Alfred and Bruce on the floor, to Dev, and back. “What do you need me to do?”

“He’s ill,” Dev said. “But I’m not sodding sure with what, yet. The shower chair, it’s upstairs. Wayne’s bathroom closet, I think.”

“Yes,” Bruce said, before returning his attention to Alfred. He was whispering to him, his cheek pressed near Alfred’s ear.

“And my kit,” Dev said, before Tim took off. “The large one’s in my car.”

“Got it.” Tim nodded and vanished.

“Wayne,” Dev said, crouching by them again. “Can you get his shirt off?”

“Al,” Bruce said, pulling back. “Hey. Hey, there. Are you feeling sick? We’re going to help but I have to let go for a few minutes.”

“Don’t treat me like an infant, Thomas,” Alfred said shakily, squeezing his eyes shut. “My head aches abominably. Why is it so bright in here.”

“Wayne, his shirt,” Dev said, when Bruce had frozen. He reached forward and Bruce shook himself and started undoing the buttons of Alfred’s shirt, while Alfred fumbled with them trying to help.

Dev helped tug it off one arm and then started scanning visible skin, while Bruce worked the undershirt off over Alfred’s head.

“What am I looking for,” Bruce asked.

“Anything. Signs of sepsis. Alfie, your head hurts, yeah?” Dev peered into his face, into the pinpoint pupils that didn’t match the brightness in the room.

“I just said that,” Alfred said irritably.

“Anything else, then?”

“I’m fine,” Alfred snapped. It lacked bite or force.

“Al,” Bruce said. “Please. It’s important.”

“Nothing,” Alfred said, his voice turning plaintive. “I ache all over but I’ve felt poorly since this morning. It’s only a cold. My chest is tight, but I’m just tired, Master Bruce. There’s no need for concern.”

Dev’s heart squeezed at the attempted reassurance sounding too much like a question.

“Flu?” Bruce said. “Pneumonia?”

“I sodding hope so. His trousers,” Dev said, when he couldn’t see anything on Alfred’s upper body— there were no neglected wounds, no bruises, nothing but old scars. “Alfie, can you manage your trousers?”

“What,” Alfred said. “Whatever on earth for? I think I want to go to bed, now, if you wouldn’t quite mind.”

Dev glanced at Bruce, whose lips were in a thin line. He was ready to order him to move out of the way, out of the room if needed, because it looked like he was shutting down. Then, Bruce took one of Alfred’s hands and kissed the knuckles. His voice was warm, and steady, and soothing when he spoke.

“Al. You’re not well. Let us help you, and then you can rest, I promise. I’ll make you some tea, if you’d like, but we need to make sure you’re not hurt before you take a shower. I’ll be right here, alright?”

For a long minute, Alfred’s glassy, bright eyes focused on Bruce alone.

“You’re worried,” Alfred said, with a hint of woundedness. “My boy. You were gone. They told me you’d died.”

“I came back,” Bruce said easily, like he was discussing a flight from Beijing. He took up the hand he’d kissed and held it to his ribs. “See? I’m fine. You aren’t, and I am worried. Will you let us check you over?”

Alfred kept his hand over Bruce’s heart for another several breaths and then laid it against Bruce’s cheek.

“I called you by your father’s name a moment ago, didn’t I? I’m so very sorry.” He sounded faint in a way that alarmed Dev, who shifted forward to put a hand out in case he tipped sideways.

“It’s alright, Al.” Bruce gripped Alfred’s falling wrist and stood, gently pulling Alfred up along with himself. He steadied him.

A noise behind them got Dev to turn. Tim was standing there with a folded chair tucked under one arm, and Dev’s medkit on his shoulder.

“Where do you want it?”

“There’s fine, mate, and then wait outside if you don’t mind,” Dev said, taking the chair. “I’ll shout if we need you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, warily watching Bruce and Alfred. He retreated and shut the door behind him.

“Shower?” Bruce asked tightly.

“First, let me get a dose of dantrolene into him, and some water. I ought to check his temperature, we might be able to avoid the shower. How’s his pulse?”

“Rapid,” Bruce answered, while Dev dug in the kit for the one small bottle. There was a water glass on the bedside table and he reached for it, and then shook two pills into his hand.

“Alfie, can you take this, then? And drink? I’m going to check your temperature while you’re at it.”

He snagged the thermometer while Alfred took the capsules and water, Bruce steadying Alfred’s hand. Dev held the device against Alfred’s ear and after two seconds it beeped.

“It’s sodding 41.0,” Dev read off. “Bloody hell, Alfie.”

Bruce swore under his breath.

The pills were chased by a long swallow of water, and Alfred’s hands shook with the glass until Bruce took it and set it down.

“Come on, Al,” Bruce said. “Lean on me. There you go. Are you feeling dizzy?”

“Somewhat,” Alfred said. “I’m very tired.”

Dev lent his shoulder for leaning on when Bruce helped Alfred with his slacks, and Bruce gave him a short shake of his head when his quick search for injuries was also clear.

“Al. You want me to wait outside?” Bruce asked. “Dev will help you.”

“You were dead,” Alfred said, his brow furrowing. “You were…Mr. Kent came by and you were…he said you died alone. A hero, as if that would mend things in any way.”

“Shh,” Bruce said. “I’ll stay. I’m not alone, or dead.”

“He’s sodding burning up,” Dev said, his wrist above Alfred’s fluttering eyes. “We need to get it down before he has a seizure. I’m sorry, Alfie, this is going to be bloody uncomfortable. We’ll keep it as short as we can.”

Alfred made a small noise of protest at first when moved to sit in the shower, under the spray of lukewarm water, and then seemed to have no energy to fight. Bruce’s arms were drenched from keeping Alfred upright and Dev chewed his lower lip, his foot tapping against the tile while he leaned and counted seconds and watched for shivering.

The minutes would have gone by with creeping, terrible slowness if Bruce hadn’t been talking. His usual silence was abandoned for a steady retelling of a story from Dick’s childhood. Every so often, he’d ask a question, and Alfred’s answers grew steadily more coherent. Dev listened without interrupting.

At the ten minute mark by his watch, Dev fished the thermometer out of his pocket and leaned over Bruce, crouching beside the shower. “Alfie. I’m going to check again. How are you feeling, then?”

“Horrid,” Alfred said, his voice faint and drawn.

Dev shoved down the spike of worry at the honesty, stripped of irritability, and pressed the button.

“39.7°,” he read off, when it beeped. He dried the droplets of water from the spray off the casing and capped and pocketed it again, then grabbed a towel from the nearby rod. “Wayne, you can shut the water off.”

Bruce twisted the knob and caught the tossed towel, and when he drew it around Alfred, the older man tipped his forehead to Bruce’s shoulder.

“Al?” Bruce asked, when Dev stopped moving.

“Do you think I could lie down, now,” Alfred answered, still conscious.

“Of course,” Bruce said. “Can you dry off, or do you want help? Dev will get you something dry to wear.”

Whatever Alfred’s answer was, Dev didn’t hear, because he was already out of the bathroom. He hazarded a guess at the bureau drawers and found cotton pinstripe pajamas on the second try.

“Dev,” Bruce called from the bathroom, just as he turned. “He’s having trouble standing.”

Alfred muttered something just below the register of Dev’s hearing but it sounded annoyed.

Dev returned with the pajamas. “Aside from illness, it’s likely the dantrolene. It’s a muscle relaxant. You’re not falling apart, Alfie, it’s only that I’ve sodding drugged you.”

“It’s about time it was your turn,” Bruce said, with a gently teasing smirk. There was concern hidden in the creases near his eyes but he was keeping it below the surface.

Alfred grumbled while Bruce helped him into the shirt, but it was tempered by exhaustion. When he stood after the pajama pants were on, he swayed despite leaning on both of them, and Bruce picked him up into a bridal carry.

“This is my leverage the next time you remind me that you changed my diapers,” Bruce said, when Alfred protested. There was a low huff of a laugh.

Once he was in the bed, Dev gave him an apologetic smile. “I’d let you sleep but I ought to check you over, first, and avoid a fever that high again if we can.”

Alfred’s only answer was a nod.

“Wayne. Send Timothy for a saline bag, would you?”

Bruce vanished from the room while Dev listened to Alfred’s heart and lungs, and checked blood pressure and pulled a swab kit from his bag.

“Open,” he instructed, and then he dropped the q-tip into the small vial. He stirred it and then attached the other cap to the vial. “I’ll spare you the blood work for the moment. I’ll pull it from the IV line after the flu test results. Your lungs sound clear enough.”

“I scared him,” Alfred said, closing his eyes. He was settled back limply on the pillows, and Dev adjusted the blankets.

“You’re alright, Alfie,” Dev said after he’d squeezed droplets into the plastic flu test, instead of what he wanted to say, which was _you sodding scared me, too_. He peeled gloves off and threw them into the bin near the bedside table. “Wayne’s not the sort to break easy, and you’re worth a bit of fright. Need anything?”

“He’s not back yet, is he?” Alfred asked, with a shiver.

Dev glanced at the closed door and then returned his gaze to Alfred. “No. He’s not. Want me to go hunt for him?”

“When,” Alfred started, and swallowed. “Is there water?”

The glass still had water, and Dev helped Alfred sit up enough to sip some. He fell back against the bed with a pained sigh.

“Never mind,” he said. “It was nothing.”

“Alfie,” Dev said. “Don’t bloody lie to me. Whatever it is, if it helps you rest better, you ought to just say. It can’t possibly bother me more than knowing you aren’t well and keeping yourself from whatever you need.”

“You don’t mean that, Kirry,” Alfred warned. His words were raspy, and low in volume, but he was clearly fighting sleep.

“I do,” Dev said firmly. “I absolutely sodding do.”

“When I was younger,” Alfred said quietly, “I was injured by shrapnel from a landmine that killed the man I was working with in Dhofar. It also took out the path to our camp. I was lost in the mountains for three days trying to find another path, dying of dehydration and infection.”

“Bloody hell,” Dev breathed. He stared at his hands, clasped together, and tried again to reconcile the idea of Alfred as he knew him, with the image of a man in a military uniform. It was never an easy thing to do. He forced a calm expression and took one of Alfred’s hands, to stop digging his nails into his own skin. The hand was overwarm, but alive. Thinking about Alfred dead before any of them had ever met him was another layer of repulsive fear.

“I think about it sometimes,” Alfred said. “It wasn’t the lowest point, certainly, but it was a rather close one.”

What Dev wanted to say to the idea that there were darker horrors lurking in the shadows of Alfred’s past, he kept trapped on his tongue between his teeth.

“Tonight,” Alfred said. “I keep…when I closed my eyes earlier, I saw…well, I saw Bruce in my place, I suppose. I know he’s been in worse scrapes, but it’s different thinking you’re seeing it. And I am so very tired.”

“One of us will stay with you,” Dev said. “I can give you something to help with sleeping, once I’ve ruled out a few things.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Alfred said tightly. His voice got very soft. “But company would, perhaps, be appreciated if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Dev gave his hand a gentle squeeze and leaned to see the test. “Well, Alfie. You’ve the flu. That’s a number of more alarming things off the table. Rest, and saline whenever Wayne comes back.”

“Mm. He’s likely lurking in the hallway.”

“I’ll check,” Dev said.

He opened the door and peered out into the dimness. Bruce was indeed there, facing the wall with his head against the wallpaper, and the saline IV supplies in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I needed…a…minute. I’m sorry. I sent Tim to bed.”

Dev stepped out and pulled the door mostly shut.

“It’s only the flu,” he said. “We’ll watch him closely for the next few days, but his lungs are clear enough.”

Bruce nodded against the wall and sniffed hard.

“Good.”

Dev opened his mouth to say something reassuring and found his throat too tight, his eyes too wet. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shoved the tears away from his lashes, and glared at the floor. “Sodding hell, I need more sleep.”

There was an arm around his neck hauling him into a hug and he returned the embrace. Bruce exhaled, low and long, when Dev ruffled the hair on the back of his head.

“It bloody scared him too, I think. I told him one of us would stay with him tonight.”

Bruce nodded against his shoulder, where his head had bent, and then pulled back. “I’ll stay with him.”

“Tea?” Dev offered. “I can make some after I set up the IV.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “If you don’t need sleep instead.”

“I’ll be sodding fine,” Dev said. “I probably couldn’t sleep anyway. I’ll keep you both company for a bit.”

Alfred was nearly asleep but roused when they returned, and fell asleep again within minutes of the saline drip starting. Bruce sat beside the bed, holding Alfred’s hand, until Dev returned with tea.

For a long time they sat there, not speaking, keeping watch in the dark.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Alfred woke from a long nap, the first sleep he’d had in a few days that felt deep instead of restless and full of frantic dreams. It took a moment to orient himself, a glance at the clock to correct his sense of time. He felt weak but there was a spark of real hunger, and a desire to get up and do things he’d neglected while ill.

He also felt utterly disgusting.

The room was empty of other occupants, but his fuzzy memories of the past few days told him someone was likely nearby or would be in to check soon. He moved the shower chair out of the shower and folded it, left it leaning on the far wall, with a stinging sense of embarrassment and shame. The best thing to do would be to simply move on and keep his chin up.

He showered and changed into something clean, deciding only at the last moment on something more casual than his usual suit. The initial intention to resume daily activities as normally as he possibly could was being quickly eroded by how shaky and tired he felt after merely twenty minutes on his feet. He adjusted his plan to a brief foray out and early retiring for sleep or rest, and consoled himself with the knowledge that even if his own current limits frustrated him, the more he respected them now, the more quickly he could return to a truly regular schedule.

The house was quiet, which was not unusual for early evening. He ventured toward the kitchen, out of habit, and found Kiran at the kitchen table with Damian. They were eating from styrofoam containers with plastic forks and Alfred took a quiet, internal moment to be relieved it was take away and not just a bag of crisps. He would not have put it past either of them, now that Damian had discovered artificial cheese flavoring.

There had been a period of time where it seemed Damian’s palate, so long shaped by other cuisine, would remain one of the more refined ones in the house. Alfred couldn’t say he was displeased, exactly, to see the boy adapting more childish tastes, but he did seem to have inherited his father’s preferences once given the freedom.

“Pennyworth,” Damian said, setting his fork down and standing. He looked more than a little angry, in the way he always did when he was nervous. It had taken more than one misunderstanding to parse that expression. “I was not aware you were up.”

“Hullo, Alfie,” Kiran said, more casually. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Alfred said. “Master Damian. Please, finish your food, young sir. I am not in danger of toppling over.”

“We purchased miso soup,” Damian said, making an aborted motion toward the counters, and then jerking back suddenly. “Or perhaps you would like some tea.”

Alfred’s heart twisted in a mix of fondness and rueful self-reproach, for being any part of the cause Damian had for uncertainty. He gave him a reassuring, if small, smile. “Tea sounds lovely, Master Damian. Thank you. I believe I shall wait on the soup.”

He had been planning on, at the very least, looking over the food stores to determine the upcoming week’s plans and needs, but Damian was already moving steadily around the cupboards and filling the kettle. Alfred sat down at the table, and caught Kiran’s concerned frown.

“I’m quite alright,” Alfred said.

“Your appetite’s likely to be off,” Kiran said, looking no less intently at him.

“I am well aware of how physical illness functions,” Alfred reminded him, with a raise of one brow.

“You ought to eat something,” Kiran said. “Does anything sound good? It doesn’t have to be the soup.”

“You are welcome to stop doctoring me at any time,” Alfred said, looking away. He watched Damian measure loose leaf into an infuser, his lips pressed in concentration. Or, maybe, it was more concern-- they were hardly out of earshot.

“Oh, am I, then,” Kiran said. “Alfie. You’ve barely had anything for days. I’ll stop when I think you’re well out of the woods and not at risk for something secondary.”

Alfred shifted his gaze from Damian to Kiran, and really looked at him. There was something decidedly more than professional bossing about there, in the thinly-veiled exhaustion and worry lines around warm brown eyes. He’d nearly forgotten to see it, as guarded as he felt knowing he’d been ill enough to throw the household out of sorts.

“I’ll make it, or run out for it,” Kiran said.

“Toast,” Alfred said. “And then I might try the soup.”

“I will make toast,” Damian said, when Kiran started to get up. “I know how you prefer it, Pennyworth, if you would like it that way.”

“That is very kind of you, Master Damian,” Alfred said, and Kiran relaxed back into his chair. Damian’s shoulders hunched slightly forward, that little defensive tic he had whenever someone complimented him, as if he felt it necessary to hide the pleased little pout of his mouth with the rest of his body. It soothed the irritation in Alfred at being coddled, even while he deeply appreciated it. Venturing so far from his bed so soon was beginning to feel foolish, even while knowing deep down his health was improving overall.

“Any fever?” Kiran asked, stirring rice around with the plastic fork. He was looking down at his food now, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“None that I am aware of,” Alfred said. “I assume you have been spending much of your time here?”

“Most of it,” Kiran admitted. “Don’t even sodding tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said gently, waiting until Kiran glanced up. “I appreciate it very much, and I have no doubt Master Bruce feels the same.”

“He’s on the couch in the study, by the way,” Kiran said, seeming to relax a bit more. “We decided not to wake him when we got back with the food. You seemed to be rather on the mend.”

“He’s not slept much, has he?” Alfred asked, though he hardly needed to.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Kiran said. “Dames?”

“I did not think until this afternoon that father remembered that the concept of sleep was not merely theory,” Damian said. The remark had little of the derision it would have had years ago, there was no underlying _how pathetic_ in the tone.

“The others have been in and out,” Kiran said. “You ought to be proud, Alfie. The lot of them have been more than a little worried-- don’t make that face, you can’t escape it now, they’re too bloody attached and they ought to be-- but fairly sufficient. They’ll be relieved to know they can go back to feigning helplessness. This is the first night we’ve had take away, if you can believe it.”

“I can, and I confess that worries me, but all’s well that ends well, I suppose,” Alfred said, quietly leaving aside his reaction to the earlier statements. He could mull them over and treasure them better privately, but felt it rude to comment any further.

Damian slid a plate of browned toast and a cup of tea in front of Alfred, and then hovered at his elbow. “Do you want something else. The soup is warm.”

“This is quite alright, thank you,” Alfred said. “Your own food is cooling. Go ahead and eat.”

Before he moved away, Damian ducked toward him and gave him an awkward hug, stiff around the shoulders. “I am glad you are feeling better,” he mumbled, jerking back quickly. He hurried around the table and fairly slammed down into his chair and shoveled a mouthful of food in faster than was polite, but then he slowed and seemed to be calming to a more reasonable pace.

Alfred, still slightly startled by the sudden display of affection, took a moment to try the toast.

The toast seemed to wake up, rather than quell, his appetite, and they sat at the table talking while he ate the toast, drank the tea, and also most of the soup. Damian talked almost without pause for breath for a solid two minutes once Kiran asked him something about one of his dogs. Alfred listened to the intense chatter thinking very much of other little boys who had sat at the same table over the years and spilled their hearts and minds after gentle nudges in the right direction.

He’d had about all he could handle of the soup when Kiran yawned.

“Will you have a chance to rest before work? I’m afraid I’m quite out of touch with your schedule, now.” Alfred asked, and didn’t protest when Damian got up and cleared the table. He was, deep down, such a good child, it was hard to believe it had once been so buried and hard to see.

“Not at all,” Kiran said. “I’ve got six surgeries tonight alone, and then not a sodding hour off the rest of the week.”

“Kiran, if you’re going to lie, you might learn to do it well,” Alfred said mildly.

“You might let me attempt a joke without ruining it,” Kiran said, but he was grinning. “No. I’m off until tomorrow. I’ve promised Dames I’ll watch a film with him tonight. I’m alright, Alfie. You’re the one who needs rest.”

“I’m going to go see how Master Bruce is faring before you’re ordering me about, again,” Alfred said, rising. “Enjoy your film.”

“We’re watching _The Land Before Time_ ,” Damian said, while he was on his way out of the kitchen.

There was a groan. “No, we sodding aren’t. I’ve told you already.”

“Only because you’re afraid.”

“Yes, yes, I bloody am. I never know what to do with you when you cry.”

Alfred went out and let them sort it themselves, trusting that Damian was far enough past his impulsive stabbing days that it was safe.

He found Bruce in the study, on the couch, still snoring softly. There was a blanket over him but Alfred pulled another from the basket by the couch and shook it out over him. He should have left, and probably gone back to bed, but he found he couldn’t quite pull himself away. Bruce always looked younger when he was asleep, and when he was exhausted enough to sleep as deeply as he was now, a lot of the lines in his face smoothed out. Alfred found a book from one of the shelves and sat in a nearby arm chair to read.

He was dozens of pages into a familiar, but old, mystery when Bruce stirred.

“Al?” he mumbled from the couch, still mostly asleep.

“I’m quite alright, my boy,” Alfred said, marking his place with a finger for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

“Hnf,” Bruce said. “You good?”

“Feeling much improved,” Alfred said.

Bruce sat up and rubbed his face. He wasn’t likely to fall back asleep, then. Alfred set the book aside.

“There’s food for you, in the warming drawer, I believe.” Alfred said. “Shall I get it for you?”

“No,” Bruce said, rolling one shoulder and then the other, and then his neck. There were audible cracks. “I’ll get it. I’m coming back to eat in here, so don’t get up. Need anything? Tea?”

“I’ve been well looked after,” Alfred said. “I’ll wait here for you, then. Shall we play a round of cards, after you’ve eaten?”

The tension that had been building around Bruce since he sat up cracked and spilled away. He gave Alfred a grateful, and relieved, smile. He crossed the rug and bent to kiss the top of Alfred’s head, The way he pulled away after was less severe than the way Damian had, but still had a touch of that same self-consciousness.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” Bruce said.

“I rather am,” Alfred said. “I need to redeem my status as a capable member of the household by watching you lose a hand or two.”

“You might need to find a better way,” Bruce teased. “I don’t lose.”

“It has been far too long since we’ve played a round of anything, if you think that’s true,” Alfred said. He picked up his book for the wait. “Go on, then. I’ll be here when you get back.”


End file.
